


Gold Dust

by Redisaid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Actual witch Mercy AU, Don't know if I'll finish this, F/F, Halloween, Somewhere not quite cannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 11:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12581072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redisaid/pseuds/Redisaid
Summary: Just posting what I have of what I planned to be a gigantic Halloween fic. It sorta didn't happen, but might be continued.Widowmaker is a retired contract killer who has lately found herself to be haunted by more than just the ghosts of her past.





	Gold Dust

She was taunting her. Humming. Singing. Definitely taunting.

Amélie had her eye trained on the courtyard for the last week. At first, she thought she was imagining the shadows she saw in the corners. She was just paranoid. She was used to being paranoid. It was a normal state of being for her. Retired or not--well, as retired as a contract killer could really be--she was always going to be on edge. It was just a part of her now, like so many other terrible things that she called normal.

But, over the course of the week, the shadow gained movement. It gained a face. It gained a voice.

Shadows didn’t sing. Figments of the imagination didn’t have a rough, accented alto. They generally didn’t know classic rock either.

“ _Rock on gold dust woman,_  
_Take your silver spoon_ ,  
_Dig your grave_ ,” she sung.

Definitely a she. Amélie had caught a solid glimpse of her that night. Pale skin. Soft blonde hair. Wearing some weird get up, but that wasn’t uncommon among assassins. I mean, she could use literally any of her old Talon colleagues to prove that point. This wasn’t a face she remembered from those days. Maybe a new recruit? Who knows? 

Amélie didn’t anymore.

That was by design. She wanted it that way. She had said she was done, but couldn’t deny that for every day she spent in that dusty old chateau--pretending to be wholly devoted to picking out the proper paint colors and re-establishing the gardens--she really wanted to be out there again, hunting. Her life really didn’t have much meaning beyond the moments where her finger could finally reach for the trigger. Nothing was better than pulling it. Proving herself. It was living--life itself really.

“You’ll be the one digging your grave,” Amélie found herself muttering as she scoured the courtyard through her scope.

The metal of the rifle was cold in her hands. Cold in a good way. Refreshing, like ice water. 

“ _Heartless challenge,  
Pick your path and I'll pray_ ,” the shadow kept singing.

Amélie tracked some movement between the statue and the arches that marked the edge of the courtyard. Nonsense. That was several meters up into thin air.

“ _Wake up in the morning,_  
_See your sunrise loves to go down_ ,  
_Lousy lovers pick their prey_ ,  
_But they never cry out loud_ ,  
_Cry out_ ,” she sang on.

Amélie had had enough. “Show yourself!” she shouted across the courtyard. “If you’ve come to kill me, then get it over with already.”

The song stopped. Amélie found herself more unnerved by the silence than the rough-edged serenade that came before it.

Then finally, “I’m not here to kill you, Amélie. I’ve been trying to tell you that, but you won’t listen.”

Amélie’s ears couldn’t track down the origin of that voice through the echoes of the courtyard. It sounded tired--almost as tired as she was. “Bullshit,” Amélie called out into the darkness.

“I mean, I could kill you,” the assassin taunted. “It would be incredibly easy. Unfortunately, what I’ve come here to do is much harder than that.”

“What is it then? What do you want with me?” Amélie asked. She thought she saw a dark shape pass across the corner of the moon. The moon was only a thin sliver in the sky--God’s fingernail, as Gerard used to call it. A perfect silver crescent.

Amélie gave up on her scope. Perhaps her eyes alone would do better in the dim of the night.

“I’m here to give you a gift.”

And then she was there. First in the faint light of that silver sliver of a moon. Black and white and mostly gray. Then the lamplight from Amélie’s window painted her in colors--browns and yellows, blues and golds. Was that a pointed witch’s hat? And how had she scaled the wall up to Amélie’s balcony?

She was sitting on the railing, smiling. 

Amélie’s finger slid toward the trigger as she leveled her rifle at the other woman. “I don’t think so.”

“You’d better not shoot me, Amélie. It won’t do either us any good,” she said as she hopped off the railing and took a step toward Amélie. “Don’t you remember me?”

Remember, now there was a word. Amélie remembered so much. Too much. She remembered the distinct look of her target's’ eyes when they caught sight of her--that split-second flash of recognition before the bullet reached them. She remembered blood on her hands. She remembered hollow satisfaction, just enough to last until the next kill. That had been her life--the life that she chose.

She chose to become a killer. Once, it had been all she ever wanted. She wanted to be better. She wanted to be perfect. When her injury stole perfection on the stage from her, she sought perfection on the target range instead. She just wanted to prove that she was as good as him--no, that wasn’t true. She wanted to be better than Gerard. She wanted her own life, one that was outside of his shadow.

Needless to say, it hadn’t all quite gone according to plan.

Amélie certainly did not remember any strange woman that regularly dressed up like a witch. So she answered, “No,” and steadied her aim. Not that she needed it. The witch kept walking toward her, right into the barrel of her gun.

“It’s Angela,” the witch told her. “We knew one another, once, briefly. Very briefly.”

No, Amélie didn’t know those blue eyes. She didn’t know that worried furrow of brows or the fine lines on that forehead that didn’t quite disappear even as her expression changed from worried to questioning. This was the kind of woman you remembered. Strange, yes, but beautiful, certainly. Amélie could still appreciate beauty. That wasn’t lost to her yet.

“I don’t know you. I don’t want whatever gift it is you’re here to give. Let’s cut the shit. Talon sent you for me, didn’t they?” Amélie asked. “I knew they couldn’t let me walk away in peace.”

Angela shook her head. “No. I’m not with Talon. While I can understand their motivations, it’s their methods that I just can’t agree with. I’m here for me, and, well, for you.”

“I told you, I don’t know you,” Amélie said.

Angela was fully pressed up against the barrel of her rifle now. The cold metal poked into her abdomen, straining the fabric of her outfit into a star shape around it. “I was afraid of that,” she noted. “You see, we’re getting off to bad start here. I’ve already lied to you.”

Amélie waited silently for her to go on. She didn’t move her gun.

“I’m here to take away a gift I gave you before,” Angela said. “In fact, you could say it’s the greatest of my regrets. I can’t even begin to explain to you what I’m risking by doing this, but if I didn’t at least try, then I don’t think I could have gone on living with it.”

Amélie responded as any sane person would, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What I do know is that you’re fucking with me. So you have ten seconds to get the fuck off of my balcony or I will pull this goddamn trigger.”

Angela sighed, “I was really hoping you would make this easy for me.” She didn’t move.

“One,” Amélie started.

“Amélie,” Angela begged. 

Why did she know her name? “Two.”

“Please.”

Talon gave it to her, obviously. “Three.”

“I need you to remember.”

She didn’t have any weapons on her, though. “Four.”

“I promise this is for the best.”

Well, no weapons that Amélie could see. That didn’t mean there weren’t any hidden on her. “Five.”

“I did this to you.”

What was she? Some kind of fucked up martial artist? “Six.”

“I need to undo it.”

No, she didn’t have the muscle tone for it. “Seven.”

“You don’t understand.”

There were a lot of things that Amélie didn’t understand anymore, but one was very clear to her--this crazy bitch needed to die first. “Eight.”

“This is my curse.”

What did this freak know about curses? “Nine.”

“I just wanted you to be happy.”

Fuck this. Fuck her. Fuck everything. “Ten.”

Amélie pulled the trigger. The butt of the rifle slammed against her shoulder with the recoil. The bullet exploded out of the chamber.

And it hit nothing. It flew off into thin air, sailing toward the lake that surrounded the chateau. 

There was thin trail of smoke where the witch was just standing. A single golden feather lay where her feet were just moments before, but otherwise there was no trace of her.


End file.
